


The Absence Of You

by entanglednow



Series: 13 Days of Halloween [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Curses, Letters, Loneliness, M/M, Magic, Pining, Sad, Unreliable Narrator, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27159433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: It's been twenty-eight years since Aziraphale last saw Crowley.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: 13 Days of Halloween [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1977847
Comments: 90
Kudos: 189





	The Absence Of You

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 'Witches' prompt, for the 13 Days of Halloween list of prompts, made by racketghost.

It's been twenty-eight years.

Aziraphale could be more precise if he wanted to, he could offer the exact number of months and days it had been since they'd seen each other last. He remembers watching Crowley angrily toss the daily newspaper down on the table, scattering the pages terribly out of order. Aziraphale had scooped it up after he'd left, folded it neatly, and noted the date. If he'd only known it would be such a long time before he'd see him again.

It's not a long absence, not really, they've spent hundreds of years apart before, almost a thousand at the beginning. He's not sure why he feels this one more keenly. It's not as if he's been left without a word either. He has four letters the demon had sent him, though they're short, hastily scratched things in jagged handwriting, with spots of ink where Crowley had been careless with his pen. The writing is crookedly placed in the middle of the paper, with no signature and no address. He has no way to write back and must simply hope for further correspondence.

He still carefully smooths their crumpled edges, rolls them neatly and then slips them into the top drawer of his desk. They look no more out of place than the rest of his papers, and after a week or two even the faint demonic taint to them will dissipate. They will no longer smell like Crowley.

Aziraphale misses him.

It's unwise to be so fond of him when he's here. To let his eyes linger on the familiar shape of him. Too much honesty would be catastrophic. There is so much they must leave unsaid, so much they cannot possibly admit to, or acknowledge. It's safer this way, he knows as much, but he wishes sometimes that they could leave each other with promises. That their partings did not feel so brief and so cold.

With the demon so far away, Aziraphale is free to stare at the sofa and imagine it shaped around the sprawl of his narrow limbs, to picture him lounging with a book, or a glass, his expressive mouth twisted in protest at whatever Aziraphale has commented. He's free to find the patches of carpet where wine has been spilled and miracled away a dozen times. He's perfectly free to think about him fondly when he's not here, which seems a special sort of cruelty.

Time drags on.

Aziraphale writes a letter - but as is always the case he either says too little or too much. It's too much this time, far too much. The ache of him bleeds out onto the thick paper in fine black ink. 

_Crowley._

_Where are you? It's been so long since you visited and I miss you terribly. I cannot stop thinking about you. The shop is so empty without you. Write to me. Please write to me. Your words make me feel as if I'm not so alone--------_

He can't bear to tear up the scandalous confession, so he miracles it out of existence instead, as if the words were never committed to paper.

Aziraphale stares into the darkness outside, where it's just gone three in the morning, not even a moon to light the sky.

He is so very alone.

-

It's been just over two days since Crowley found Aziraphale on the floor, one of his cabinets smashed open, a book stolen - green cover, gold writing, The Unstructured Path, a rambling collection of magical theory, Crowley remembers, because he knows every blasted book in the shop. Anathema is still working on accessing a copy of it online.

The place had reeked of magic, though nothing demon or angel. There's a subtle trail of it leading from the shop door and into the back. Witches that the angel had considered harmless, witches who'd come prepared.

They couldn't kill him, they didn't have the power for it, so they'd sent him somewhere else instead. Crowley had put him on the sofa and then spent the next two days trying to wake him.

The angel's still in there, he knows that much. But there's a deep stillness to him and his hands are freezing cold. Aziraphale has always been warmer than Crowley and the fact that his hands are now icy in Crowley's grip leaves him feeling a miserable sort of dread. Leaves him reluctant to stray far from him, afraid that if he lets go for a moment that something terrible will happen, that the angel will slide away somewhere he can't reach him, somewhere he can't follow. 

"You haven't found anything in any of the books?" he demands of the witch.

"I don't know how they put him to sleep to start with," Anathema tells him, not for the first time, and he hates her a little for not being able to help, for not having any answers. Even though this isn't her fault. She's the only living witch he knows, but she's not an expert at this flavour of magic.

Crowley will find the ones who did this when Aziraphale wakes up. He'll find them and he won't feel the need to be _kind_. 

"I would have said they used something demonic, since he's a Principality," Anathema continues, over the sound of pages turning. "They shouldn't have had this much power. But you said there wasn't a hint of it in the shop. And Aziraphale's collection of rare magical texts and scrolls - the ones I can read at least - are a bit beyond me." She stops, adjusts her glasses and takes a deep breath. "Contrary to what the fairy tales will tell you, people are not supposed to stay in magically induced sleep for long. Are you sure you can't reach him?"

"He doesn't sleep," Crowley protests. "He's never had to learn how to leave parts of his consciousness open. But he's stubborn and he's careful and he's good at keeping secrets. Which means he's locked up tight in there. So, no, I can't reach him. It's like trying to push through a solid block of ice. He doesn't even know I'm here."

-

It's been...Aziraphale doesn't remember how long it's been, but it feels like forever.

He'd apologised in his last letter, he'd had nowhere to send it but he hopes it reaches Crowley anyway. He must have done something wrong. It must be his fault somehow that Crowley hasn't visited, that he hasn't come by, that he hasn't written again. There have been no new letters from him for years now. 

Aziraphale can't remember what it was that he'd done, or what they'd argued about. But that must have been the reason that Crowley left. They've argued before but something tells him that this time is worse, that he's wounded the demon in some way. That perhaps he's pushed him away too well, or too many times, said something unforgivable. 

He feels Crowley's absence so deeply it's almost a physical pain. He goes to the door sometimes, feels the weight of London outside, sees the carriages and the street lamps through the glass. But somehow he can't make himself leave. He knows that looking for him out there would be hopeless. No, he must remain in the bookshop. What if Crowley needs him, what if he comes while Aziraphale's not here? He can't risk that.

Perhaps another letter, another apology, if he could just explain how important he is, how much he wishes he could acknowledge their friendship but it's simply too dangerous. He never means any of the words he says, he never means to push him away. Crowley must understand, he's just afraid. 

If he could find the right thing to say. Crowley will come.

_Dear Crowley,_

_If I have offended you with words offered in anger or ignorance please do not hold them against me. Please consider our long-standing -_

The pen drips quietly and Aziraphale returns to the top of the paper, scratches out what he'd written.

_Crowley, please, whatever it was that I did, I'm sorry, I'm so very sorry. If this is a punishment then please believe me when I say that nothing could be worse than this silence from you. Nothing could be worse than these years you've left me with no word and no way to reach you. I have been waiting for you for so long and I'm afraid you're not coming, that you're not coming, that you will never come again._

_I feel like I have forgotten the sound of your voice and it terrifies me._

_I'm so terribly alone._

_I'm sorry._

_Please don't leave me._


End file.
